by Steven Pajak
I shrugged my shoulders. “Don’t know. Sounds logical, though. There’s so much about these things we don’t understand.”
“That’s the problem. We don’t understand them, at least not at the biological level. Sure, we know they hunt by sight and sound. We know their basic level of intelligence. But we don’t know what makes them tick or why only damaging the brain kills them. And until we understand them, we can’t cure them.”
“I don’t think we can cure them, Bri. I think we know enough about them to know there is no coming back from…that.”
Now Brian shrugged his shoulders. “You’re probably right about that. But if not cure them, find immunity for the rest of us that are left so that we can take this all back.”
We rode on in silence for a while. After about twenty minutes, I asked Brian to stop the wagon. He didn’t need to ask why. He saw what had grabbed my attention. I leapt down from the passenger’s bench and walked around the horses to the opposite side of the road where the wheelchair lay upended with Ray’s backpack still attached to the back of the seat.
I spent a few seconds untangling the straps and then slung the pack onto my shoulder and paused a moment, reflecting. Most of what happened is this very spot several months ago was hazy to me. I tried hard to recall the attack. There were three of the crazies attacking us from every side. I remember trying to fend them off with my SKS. At some point, I dropped the SKS in order to drag Ray away from the creatures.
Turning suddenly, I scanned the side of the road and started walking back toward the rear of the wagon, searching for the place I had dropped the rifle.
“What’s up?” Brian asked, suddenly on alert. He started to stand, but then he sat again when I waived him off.
“I’m just looking for something. Give me a minute.”
“The day is wasting, son, let’s get a move on,” he said. “Not to mention we’re sitting ducks out here. You see them coming from over there on the right, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I see them,” I said, although I wasn’t paying attention to what was happening on our right flank, although I could hear the sounds of the crazies as they drew near. I was focused on finding the SKS if it was still around.
I don’t know why at the moment I felt so obsessed with finding the weapon. Yes, it had served me well since the beginning of the outbreak and had been my most trusted weapon, but after a long winter, surely the harsh elements had taken their toll. The fact was, the weapon was probably damaged, but still, I wanted it back.
“Dude, whatever you’re doing back there, make it snappy. And watch those woods. Those nasty shits could be stacked up in there just waiting for a taste of your pasty white meat.”
“Uh-huh,” I responded absently, my eyes scanning, taking in the terrain, searching for clues that might reveal my prize.
About twenty feet back from the wagon, I spotted the butt end sticking out of the brush and I almost squealed with excitement. Hurrying down the slight decline of the embankment, I almost slipped on the innards of a long-dead creature, probably one of those that had attacked Ray and me during the white out. Luckily, I was able to keep my balance before falling into the oozing carcass.
I snatched up the SKS from under a scattering of branches and soggy leaves and quickly brushed off the foliage. The wood felt slick in my hands, but thankfully, the thick shellac held up well to the elements. There didn’t appear to be any major structural damage to the stock. The barrel and receiver cover were showing some signs of rust spotting on the surface. My concern, though, was the inside of the barrel. I’d need to inspect it later and make sure there was no major rust or pitting.
I pulled back the bolt carrier and a round spun out of the chamber and fell to the ground. I worked the bolt carrier back and forth several times in quick succession noting that it didn’t stick or catch. The action seemed in working order.
The leather strap was quite damaged; one end cut and dangled from the sling mount at the butt of the rifle. The leather had turned grayish and appeared to have shriveled. No matter though. A sling was easily replaceable. I was just glad to have the SKS back. I was optimistic that after some TLC, I could restore her back to battle ready.
A hushed rustle of leaves and snapping branch alerted me that something was approaching from the trees out in front of me. My head jerked up as I slowly lowered the SKS. Through the sparse, bare trees, I spotted the woman several yards out, slightly to my left. She trudged through the thin layer of snow, her awkward gait gave her the appearance of inebriation.
“What’s up?” Brian asked, standing again, ready for action.
“Its fine,” I assured him.
Rather than heading back to the wagon and moving on as I knew I should, I took several steps forward and halted just a few feet from where the tree line began. Curious, I watched the woman as she continued her drunken approach. Now just a couple of yards away, I could see clearly the features of this creature.
I was surprised, to say the least. The woman must have been in her thirties, but by the way her skin sagged around her jawline and neck, by appearance I would have guessed she was in her sixties, perhaps seventies. The greenish-gray color of her skin made her appear mottled, diseased.
“Matt, what are you doing?”
“Just give me a minute, dude,” I snapped at him, although my eyes never left the thing that now stood in front of me.
She struggled through a copse of thin branches as she broke through the trees, as though they were arms gripping her. Now just feet away, I extended the SKS out in front of me and poked her breasts. Although she pushed against the rifle, I felt little pressure behind it. Gripping the SKS with both hands, I gave a slight shove and instantly, the crazy feel backward, onto the ground.
Before my brother could call out for me again, I said, “I’m fine. Just stay with the wagon.”
“Stop messing around. The others are getting close.”
“Just a minute,” I said.
As I watched, the thing attempted to push up, but was having a difficult time supporting her weight. Again using the SKS, I placed the butt against her chest and pushed the creature down to the ground. Taking a knee beside her, I stepped on her right arm, the one closest to me, before she could reach out and scratch me. Although I was immune to the disease, an open and infected wound could kill me.
On closer examination, the skin color of the skin was, indeed, a waxy green, with gray and pinkish splotches that dotted her face, arms and hands, the only exposed parts of her body I could see. Her eyes appeared milky around the edge of the cornea. Clumps of her hair were missing and I could see that same greenish-grayish-pinkish color where the hair was either pulled out or had fallen out.
Although she struggled beneath my grip, it was as if I were holding down an infant or young child; it took very little effort for me to keep her pressed against the cold ground. The thing’s skin was slick to the touch, more than just the clamminess of sweat, as though it secreted some Vaseline-like substance from its pores. The skin itself did not have the taut elasticity I expected; instead, a depression remained on the creature’s cheek where I pushed my thumb against the skin. After thirty seconds, the depression remained.
“Let’s go, damn it,” Brian said and startled me. He stood just behind me and was already pulling me up by my coat.
“For Christ sake, dude, I almost dropped a load in my pants. I told you to stay with the wagon.”
“What the hell are you doing with this thing?” He asked. Before I could answer, he cleaved the thing’s head with his machete. He crouched down and looked up at me while he cleaned the blood on the dead thing’s clothing. “Were you asking her out on a fucking date? In about a minute we’re going to be swarmed by dead meat and you’re over here playing around with dead things.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “Let’s go,” I said and made my way to the wagon. The crazies on our right flank were indeed closer, much closer than I expected. He was right; this was stupid and could hav
e been a disaster. We should have left already.
Slamming down onto the bench next to me, I expected him to start harping on me, but instead, he snapped the reins and got the horses moving without a word. For a while, we rode on in silence, except for the echoing sound of hooves clattering against pavement. The beautiful country sprawled out on both sides as we continued to roll down Route 20. I no longer noticed heads or bodies appearing from below the snow.
After a while, Brian finally said, “You were studying that thing. Weren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Did you find out anything useful?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have found out something. You were prodding that thing like you were some sort of mad scientist.”
I laughed at that. “I can’t draw any conclusions from looking at one specimen.”
“Just tell me already before I punch you in the face.”
I laughed again, because I knew he would do it. It was fun to push his buttons and watch him get flustered.
“All right, chill. You know, you don’t always have to jump right to punching someone in the face. You have to work your way up to that.”
“Dude, seriously. Your face is one second away from getting punched.”
“See, now you are showing restraint. You shall now be rewarded.”
Instead of punching me in the face, he gave me a hard shot to the shoulder that made me drop the SKS and grunt in pain. “Asshole.”
Now it was his turn to laugh. “Study that, Einstein.”
We rode again in silence; Brian had a smirk on his face enjoying my discomfort, while I sat nursing my bruised shoulder and ego. After a while, I closed my eyes and started to dose. I don’t know how much longer we rode on before Brian reached out and shook me awake. He brought the wagon to a halt.
“What the hell is this?” he asked.
Shaking off sleep, I wondered if what I was seeing was real. Across the two lane blacktop, a huge trailer, the type pulled by a semi-tractor, lay on its side, its full length stretching beyond the road on each side. On either side of the trailer, various trailers, dumpsters and containers were strung together creating a very long and high make-shift fence. Actually, border, was probably a better word.
“Where are we?” I wondered aloud.
“We’re just past the Kennel. Reverend Reggie’s congregation is just to the south. Randall Oaks is just on the other side of the barrier.”
“Get us closer,” I said.
The horses trotted and Brian halted them again about twenty feet from the wall. We both jumped down from the wagon and stood looking at the barrier. From here, I could see that the containers stretched into the woods beyond for about one hundred feet, perhaps more. The wall on the right went even further.
“How the hell do we get around it?” I asked.
“That’s the point of it,” Brian said and kicked the trailer. The empty throng sound vibrated along the trailer and into the containers that butted up against it on both sides. “To keep those things out. Or to keep someone in.”
“Who put it here, though? Certainly not Sam and Kat. They wouldn’t have the manpower or resources to do something like this.”
Before Brian could respond, a sudden burst of movement came from our left. We both turned in that direction, startled. From the tree lines and defilade along the road, a group of men and women—ten or twelve in all—appeared, each pointing a weapon at us.
Chapter 4
Enemy of my Enemies
“For mine enemies speak against me;
and they that lay wait for my soul take counsel together.”
Psalms 71:10
Brian’s first reaction was to raise his weapon, but I knew my brother too well, and I reached out and stayed his rifle before he could do something foolish. We were outnumbered, outgunned, and there was something going on within Randall Oaks that we obviously didn’t know about. We needed to figure out what was going on before we got dead.
“No, we don’t want that. Not yet. We can’t win this.”
Four of the strangers, three men and a woman approached us, yelling for us to lower our weapons and face the trailer. We both complied; Brian setting down his rifle and I removing my belt and letting my holstered pistol and machete down. Two of the group hurried forward and snatched away our weapons, all the while keeping their weapons still trained on us.
“Search them,” one of them said. “Check them good.”
One of the two men who came forward and grabbed our weapons now shouldered his carbine. “Get your hand against the wall,” he said and shoved my brother up roughly against the trailer and began to frisk him, checking for other weapons.
“Take it easy,” I said. “We’re cooperating.”
The second man, the youngest of this group, shouldered his rifle and asked me to put my hand against the trailer. I complied and he began his pat down. When he finished his inspection, he told me to turnaround.
“They’re clean,” the young man said. He unshouldered his weapon, although he did not point it in our direction.
Now, the man who had roughly searched my brother approached. To me he asked, “Are you alone?”
“We’re not looking for trouble,” I said, trying to look friendly, non-threating. I wanted to avoid any stupid misunderstandings that could quickly escalate the situation to the point where blood was spilled.
Using his rifle butt, he nudged it against my chest and said, “I asked if you were alone, not if you were looking for trouble. I’ll ask the question one more time. Are you two alone?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw my brother start to move forward. I reached out a hand toward my brother, staying him. I was beginning to realize this had the potential to get serious in a hurry. These folks had obviously been through an experience that robbed them of their trust of others. I certainly couldn’t blame them. I saw firsthand with Providence how survivors could turn on each other.
Right now, I needed to know what happened to our people, but these men and women weren’t going to give us answers; they didn’t know who we were. I contemplated identifying ourselves, but without knowing who they were, and what they’d done with our people, I didn’t want to risk giving any information.
For a moment, I stared down at the man, the friendly look sliding away from my face. Finally, I said, “Yes, we’re alone. Why don’t you tell me who you are and what you want.”
The man did not reply, but instead whistled and twirled his index finger in the air, a signal to his group, one that I recognized. The other members of his group come forward now. One of the women and another man held thin rope in their hands.
Brian and I both watched the pair as they approached, wary of the rope. Bound, our options for counterattack or escape would be severely limited.
“You’re not tying me up,” Brian said, turning around to face them. “I’ll go wherever you’re taking us, but I won’t be bound.”
“You don’t have a choice,” the man in charge said and made another signal with his hand. Immediately, two of the men came forward and tried to take hold of Brian. The first took a shot to the jaw that knocked him back several steps, while the second took a boot to the abdomen for his troubles. He doubled over, trying to suck in air. The young man who patted me down just moments ago now raised his gun, pointing it at my brother’s chest.
Unimpressed by the brandishing of the weapon, Brian started to walk toward him.
“Stop there or I will shoot,” the young man said. “I swear I will, please don’t make me.”
Meanwhile, several of the other men who had kept their distance to keep us covered with rifles now surged forward and grabbed my brother. He struggled with them, striking them with elbows and knees, even head butting the woman when she got too close.
“Get a hold of him!” the man in charged shouted.
Everything happened so quickly, it took me a few seconds to react. I finally moved my ass to intervene. I pulled one of the men away, sho
ving him to the ground, making room for me in the tangled mass. I grabbed my brother in a bear hug and put my lips close to his ear so he could hear me.
“Just let this happen. Let them take us inside. You understand?”
He continued to struggle for a moment, then finally subsided. He nodded his head; he would comply. I felt his body go limp and he stopped struggling. Raising my hands above my head, showing my intention to submit, I shouted, “Okay, we’ll cooperate. Everybody just calm down. We’ll cooperate.”
We were both shoved roughly up against the trailer again. I couldn’t see who was behind me, but both of my arms were pulled up and my wrists were roughly bound. My arms immediately began to ache and my wrists burned.
The man who seemed to be the leader spun me around so that we were face to face. “I don’t call this cooperation,” he said, pointing to his right cheek where a small welt already arose and blood trickled down from a small open wound.
“My bad,” Brian said. “That’s on me.”
The woman who Brian head butted spit in his face. “This asshole broke my nose,” she said.
“That’s my bad, too,” Brian said.
The woman grabbed a handful of Brian’s jacket and cocked a fist, but she paused before throwing the punch.
“Donna, that’s enough!” the man in charge said. To me he said, “Anymore of that type of cooperation won’t be tolerated. Right now we are being nice, but we can also be not so nice. You dig?”
I nodded my head. “We dig. What about our horses?”
He looked at them for a moment, then turned to the young kid. “You and John get those horses detached and bring them inside. Do it quickly before the dead things show up, got it?”
“I got it, Randy,” the kid said.
“And get whatever gear they have and bring it,” Randy said. To me he asked, “Satisfied?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said.
“That is cooperation,” Randy said.
They led us to one of the containers that blocked the right side of the road. It was one of those ship cargo containers and it faced perpendicular to the others so that its doors on either end were accessible from either side of the road. We exited the container and came face to face with the front gates of Randall Oaks. We were home.